


Bugs

by Anonymous



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Disturbing Themes, Explicit Sexual Content, Fucked Up, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29423964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He's grown up, he's at college, has a job, left his life of being a burnout loser behind him. But then there's him, the spectre from his past.What was wrong with him? Why was he attracted to him? Why did he want to have sex with his childhood stalker?
Relationships: Sideshow Bob/Bart Simpson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18
Collections: Anonymous





	Bugs

Bart has officially ‘grown up’ now. Twenty-two years old, at college studying law, with a job, not living with his parents. The childhood of hooligan behaviour is behind him.

A part of him wants to prove everyone wrong, prove he isn’t a loser overshadowed by his genius sister, destined to waste his life away. But the other part of him is teetering on the edge of utter self-destruction. Doing well was too much pressure, it was too hard, he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t. What was the point in trying, he was never going to succeed anyway. Might as well just accept and embrace the label of fuckup he’d had all his life.

Marge doesn’t know that he isn’t really a barista at the college café. He’s actually behind the bar at La Maison Derrière, serving drinks to leering men watching the dancing girls. Belle had passed a few years before and the house had lost some of its old vaudeville charm. The new owner, a down on her luck washed up Lindsey Naegle had installed stripper poles and created some private rooms on the top floor for girls to take clients to. In the attic was a cheap flat where Bob lived. It’s the only place he can get, what with his years in prison and list of crimes a mile long.

Bob never acknowledges him. The first time he sees Bart at the bar, his face coils up for all of a second before he turns away, walking back up the stairs with his suitcase of belongings.

Bob never comes down to the bar when it’s busy and the place is packed. He comes down past midnight when the girls have stopped performing and are packing up to go home and there’s only one or two people around. Normally Lindsey would be trying to kick everyone out so they could close up, but Bob orders the most expensive stuff they have so he always gets to stay until they officially lock the doors up.

There’s a peculiar nostalgia about seeing him again. It was like re-watching a childhood film that had given him nightmares as a kid. He’s the bogeyman, wild-haired, sharp-faced, and mean-eyed, still taller but not a looming giant like he’d seemed before. Bob always orders a whiskey on the rocks from the other bartender and goes over to the corner of the room, sipping his drink and writing in a journal or reading a book in silence.

As he’s collecting glasses from tables and emptying ashtrays, he looks at Bob out of the corner of his eye. Looks at the curl of his long fingers around the cold glass of whiskey. He’s transfixed for a moment. His hands are big, broad, veins protruding from the pale skin, knuckles thick, wrists strong. Hard constant labour in prison had done that no doubt.

Something niggles like a maggot at his chest. Unease is slowly spreading through him, a nasty infection. He isn’t attracted to him. No. That was sick. He’s not sexually attracted to his childhood stalker.

The other bartender Jess, slacking off as usual is leaning against the bar, chewing gum. She doesn’t smell like fruit loops anymore, just overpowering perfume.

“I looked him up and he’s a tutor now,” Jess said to Bart casually. “For like adult illiterates and you know there’re a lot of those in Springfield.”

He tried not to look overly interested.

“Who’d want to be tutored by a jailbird?” he scoffed. Jess shrugged.

“Beggars can’t be choosers. There’s no-one here exactly smart enough to be a tutor. All the smart ones left this shithole as soon as they could.”

Like his sister off at an Ivy League college halfway across the country. He shakes the mean little thought away like an ant in his brain.

When he goes back home to the college dorm he shares with Milhouse, he hides under his sheets and looks Bob up on his phone. Jess is right. He is a tutor. He sees his mobile number, hovers his fingertip over the call button. Milhouse is snoring in the bed across the room. Bart puts the phone away.

Laura Powers was one of the regulars at the bar, wolf whistling at all the dancing girls. For her birthday, a party was organized, her gang of friends getting a cake and paying for a lap dance in one of the private rooms. The boss heads home early and Bart and Jess both jump at the opportunity to slack off and sit with the partygoers. As usual Bob came down around past midnight. His face curled up with irritation as he realized it wasn’t nice and quiet like he was used to. The party was on its last legs, some of the dancing girls still hanging around.

“Hey man!” Laura called, drunk and happy as Bob made a move to head back upstairs. “You can stay!”

“No, I’m fine,” he said with a voice like snake venom, looking around at her gaggle of friends, laughing and grabbing at each other, spilling drinks over themselves

“No, no!” Laura said. “Hey, free drinks on me, c’mon!”

Bob paused, tempted by the free booze. With a shrug, he slides over. Laura and her friends all cheer.

Jess goes over to get him his usual expensive whiskey. Bart watches him at the bar. Bob, feeling eyes on him, turns and Bart quickly looks away. The burn of the older man’s gaze on him makes the blood rush to his cheeks, makes his squeeze his knees uncomfortably together.

What’s the attraction? Why’s their attraction? What the hell is wrong with him?

Bob slinks over and of course there’s no other spot on the couch except for next to him. He sits down at his side, so close they could knock their legs together. He reaches into his pocket and gets out a pack of cigarettes. Smoking was only allowed in the designated area outside, but Bob gets away with it. Lindsey doesn’t want to upset her best paying customer.

His arm is around the back of Bart’s part of the couch. He can feel the heat of his skin near him, feels the sweat at the back of his neck prickle, his breath caught in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Bob sip from his glass, draw from his cigarette. Bob doesn’t look at him.

“We should have a night where the bartenders get up on stage,” said Laura her eyes flicking over to Jess. She smiles, fluffing up like a Persian cat at the attention.

“Yeah, get Bart up there in frilly knickers,” Shauna Chalmers replies and there’s laughter, Jess looking irritated that she was no longer being flirted with. Bart has a sudden vision, sharp as a knife of being in a baby pink negligee, sliding up and down in Bob’s lap, the man’s large strong hands at his waist. It’s a frightening image, dark and vividly erotic. He wants to scratch it from his mind. He twitched rubbing his hand down his neck that felt like it was crawling with bugs.

He feels Bob’s hand clench into a fist on top of the sofa. He pulls his arm away, crossing them casually across his knees. Covering himself. Bart’s breath feels sticky in his chest. Was Bob imagining the same thing?

The party ends, everyone trickles off out the doors, Laura thanks them for hosting her birthday bash. Bart locks up the doors to the main room and glances up the carpeted stairs. Standing by the railing, nearly engulfed in shadows, he’s watching, eyes dark and twisting like snakes. Bart swallows, roughly. He raises his hand in a casual farewell. Bob doesn’t respond so Bart leaves. It feels dangerous to turn his back on the older man. Soon he’s in his car, heading back to the college dorm.

He can’t stop thinking about it. The mention of Bart in lingerie made his fist clench, made him have to cover up his lap. Did he get hard, thinking about it? Did he go back to his flat later and jerk off thinking about him?

A few days later he’s at work when he sees that someone has left one of the Spuckler girls a gift. She opens up the bag and looks through the tissue paper. A lacy white set of lingerie. She crinkles up her nose.

“Ain’t my size,” she said, dumping the fabric back into the bag and pushing it over to Bart. “You can give it to one of the other girls.”

At the end of his shift, he goes into one of the private massage rooms with the bag in his jacket. He hasn’t given it away. He doesn’t want to give it away. He sits down on the loveseat and pulls the lingerie out, lays it on the armrest. Without thinking, he’s dropping his jeans pulling off his shirt.

Staring at himself in the mirror, he wraps his arms around himself. A white slip, knee high lace stockings with garters, silk collar and panties. He snaps a photo so only his lower half is seen, his cock dampening the fabric, the blond hair on his thighs sticking out over the tops of his stockings.

He presses send then texts, “I’m in the massage parlour.”

Immediately he’s hit by a tsunami of emotion, regret, fear, excitement and arousal all burning and swirling inside him. He’s so stupid. He’s made a complete idiot of himself. Maybe he can just say he meant to send it to someone else. His face wasn’t in it. Maybe he could say it wasn’t him.

The phone blips, tells him that Bob has seen it. His heart pumps hot and sticky like bloody boiling sugar in his mouth. He sits down shakily on the massage table, gripping the tattered pleather, his knees pressed together, breath like rough static in his throat.

He hears footsteps behind the door just before it thumps open. He looks over at Bob in the doorway. His face is narrow, dark, hungry. Bart can feel his blood pumping like the beat of a drum. Bob locks the door and it makes white hot fear shoot through him, the primitive animal part of his brain screaming at him to run. The older man walks slowly into the room step by step, going around the back of the massage table, circling him like Bart is his helpless prey. Then he’s in front of him. None of them speak. The only sound is their breathing. When Bob reaches out, Bart flinches. He feels his long fingers just lightly touch at his cheek. Bob’s eyes are molten lava.

“You’re scared of me.”

Bart looks down, feels his shoulders rise up under his ears. Sees the front of Bob’s pants, his arousal tenting the fabric, sees his own cock hard in the silk panties. Bob’s finger trails down his neck, his shoulder, his arm, sending ticklish tremors up and down his spine. His eyes trail down Bart’s body, his pale skin, the blond hair down his belly, the white delicate fabric and the hardness between his legs.

“But you still want it,” he said. More of a statement then a comment.

“Yeah,” he breaths back.

Bob cups Bart’s chin, making him look up. Then he presses their mouths together.

His lips are thin, stubble rough against his skin. His smell is all around him, expensive cologne and aftershave. He can taste the smoke and whiskey on his tongue as it delves inside his mouth. It’s not like the kisses he’d had with the few girls over the years, soft plush mouths that tasted of sugary lip-gloss. Not like the kisses with the few boys, chapped lips that tasted of cheap beer.

He’s suddenly aware of his inexperience. His kissing skills are clumsy, more like a dog lapping at a water bowl. Bob’s fingers are firm at his jaw, keeping him in place.

“So stupid you don’t even know how to kiss properly,” he said with a mocking smile. “I think all you know is to lie down and take it, anything else would be far beyond your abilities.”

He pulls Bart’s hand down between his legs and Bart feels him, feels how hard he is. Then he lies him down against the massage table, going around to the end of it.

Bob takes his ankle, strokes his fingers feather-light up the inside of his leg then back down again. He teases the sole of his foot with one nail until Bart shivers, his nipples two hard points. Bob rubs his stockinged foot over the bulge in his crotch as Bart slips his knuckles into his mouth.

There’s oil on the bench beneath the massage table and Bob reaches for it. Pulling the band of Bart’s panties down just to the top of his thighs, he pours the oil over the little soft area between his belly button and his cock. It feels warm and Bart muffles a whimper at the feeling, fingers still stuck in his mouth. Bob makes a little crooning sound in the back of his throat that makes a thousand pinpricks spark over his skin, makes him squirm on the table top.

He cups his balls for a moment with the oily hand, touching his taint, his hole. Bart clenches his thighs together in a moment of shyness and Bob tuts, nudging his knees back open. The blunt pads of his fingers, oiled up and greasy are prodding at his hole. Bart’s feels his stockinged feet curl and his thighs squeeze back shut at the pressure. Bob’s other hand is at his knee, pushing it down firmly against the table so he doesn’t close them up again.

Two fingers inside of him feel too big, bigger then he can bear. He strains around the pumping digits, inner walls clamping down tight as he feels his face clench up. Bob’s other hand slides to his hipbone, taking a hold of it to stop him squirming. There’s an explosion of white hot pleasure and a gasp escapes him. He's found his sweet spot, stroking and pressing it. The hand on his hip trails up his belly and then over the soaked fabric of his panties.

“Has nobody ever fucked you properly before?” he breathed. “Stretched you out nice and open?”

The long bony fingers massage him, His hand palms him unrelentingly through the white silk, squeezing, stroking and the fabric soaks through with cum. His knees are trembling, his nipples painfully erect. The muscles in his stomach go loose, his blood is jelly, he can’t stop trembling and trembling.

“Uhhh,” he chokes out around his fingers in his mouth as his cock starts dripping precum. “Uhhh…”

He just keeps milking his prostate, the semen spilling in an endless stream.

Then the hand on his knee is gone and Bob is unbuckling his belt, pulling out his cock. Bart stares at it, mouth filling with saliva. Thick veined shaft, flushed wet cockhead, straining in Bob’s hand. Bob takes Bart’s pink cock and steps forward so they brush together. It sends fresh electric bolts through his skin.

He’s stroking their shafts together, wet and slippery, Bob’s cockhead pulsing against his own. He thrashes completely overstimulated, feeling like he’s been thrown in a pit of needles. Prickling agony all over, so goddamn good, better than anything. His throat is hoarse from moaning and Bob’s squeezing every last drop from him, Bart’s come sliding down Bob’s spidery hand. He feels him exhale, feels him unload, their come mixed up together.

Bob casually tucks his cock back inside his pants, doing his belt back up. Then Bob is leaving him there, like a stunned rabbit. Bart just lies on the table, staring at the ceiling trying to catch his breath. What had just happened?

Bart has fucked and been fucked but only with people his own age fumbling, awkward and inexperienced just like him. Bob is the first person he’s been with who knows how to have him writhing with pleasure. It’s embarrassing, one fuck with someone who knows what they’re doing and he’s hooked. Burning for more and more of it.

A part of him kinda hoped the quickie in the private room would get this infatuation out of his system. He’d have a slimy experience with the man and it would put him off ever wanting anything to do with him again.

Of course his plans never work out for him. Now he just wants more.

*

It’s his day off work, but he heads over to the burlesque house anyway. He feels almost faint with tiredness. It seems like everyone in his class is just naturally clever but he just isn’t. He has to work extra hard to keep up with everyone else. He feels like he’s desperately treading water and the moment he stops he’ll sink to the bottom. Everyone else can laze around and still ace their work with ease but if he even thinks of relaxing his rigorous study routine, he’ll flunk at once.

He’s drawn like a magnet in his chest, up the carpeted stairs, past the private rooms with moaning and giggling inside, to the door that led to the attic. It’s locked and he presses the doorbell. After a few moments, he realizes he must be out, at work or doing errands.

He should just go back home. Back to his college dorm. It makes his chest twist up. He doesn’t wanna go back.

Without thinking, he reaches into his bag, rummages around until he finds a bobby pin. He sticks it into the lock and fiddles around until it clicks open.

He hadn’t picked a lock since his teenage days of hooliganism. It makes his breath feel slightly tight with barely restrained excitement. Wobbling on the edge of falling back into his previous life of complete destruction, leaving his new proper, grown up life behind.

Bob’s apartment is small but sophisticated. There’s an overflowing bookcase against every wall, artwork that he’s sure Lisa would recognize, mahogany furniture. No shared bathrooms that you have to queue to use in the mornings. A lovely claw-footed bath.

The only downside is the lack of television.

He goes into the bedroom. His bed looks much more comfortable then his own back in the dorm. No squeaky frame and springs sticking out. The blanket and pillow feel softer than a cloud. He pulls off his clothes, revealing the white stockings, panties, the collar around his neck. He’d hid in a toilet stall to put them on under his usual t-shirt and jeans that morning. During the day, through the lecture, lunch and studying in the library, he’s occasionally slip his hand under his shirt, feel the collar there, shift in his seat to feel the slide of silk knickers underneath his pants. Each time it sends a flutter of pleasure through his chest.

He wants to be seductive, lying in bed in wait for him but instead he just falls asleep. College and studying and work had done a number on him.

He slips into a dream. A dream where his body is different, curved with a sweet tender opening between his legs. Bob’s there, his fingers stroking at his burning hot cunt, other hand teasing the swell of his little tits.

Faintly through his dreamscape he hears the door opens, hears a huff of surprise. Then he feels the touch of knuckles against his forehead, brushing his hair out of his eyes. His hand rests on top of his head, lingering for a moment before trailing away. It’s shockingly tender.

He drifts back into his slumber.

“You want my mouth here?” he breathed, thumb grazing his throbbing clit.

“Yessir,” he whimpered back

His cock pressed into his heat and it hurt, his inner walls stretching to accommodate his girth, his length. So big, it brushed his cervix made him feel faint and dizzy. He could feel his semen pumping into his womb. He kisses him open mouthed, hungry, and Bart can taste his own cunt on his tongue.

He jolts awake all at once.

For a moment he’s confused to where he is. In the corner in the armchair, Bob in his dressing gown, is slowly savouring a book, his glasses propped on his nose. For a second he feels a jolt of fear. It’s eerily reminiscent of his childhood nightmares, waking up to find Bob in the corner of his room ready to pounce and attack. Of course back then, he wasn’t goddamn attracted to the man of his nightmares. Bob was only ever terrifying as a child but as Bart grew older something went wrong in his brain and now the fear and arousal wires had crisscrossed, sparking together.

Bob’s eyes flick up from the book. He lets it fall closed as he rises to his feet. Bart’s heart is in his mouth as he takes off his glasses, lets the dressing gown drop to the floor, climbing onto the end of the bed, naked, his cock hard against his stomach. Bart lets his legs part, tries to breathe evenly as Bob climbs on top of him.

His chest is tight and fluttery. Bob had waited for him to wake up. He didn’t shake him awake himself.

He doesn’t have time to ponder this. Bob’s mouth is claiming his, one hand sinking into his hair, fingers against his scalp, the other skimming his chest and tweaking his nipple. His cock rubs against the silky fabric of his stockings as he kisses over his cheek, nuzzling into his neck.

One strong arm is sliding beneath him, turning him onto his stomach. He feels his hands stroking down his hips, over the swell of his ass.

“Pleasant dreams?” he whispered as he rubbed the length of his cock up and down between his cheeks.

“I dreamt I was a girl…” he breathed back. “You fucked my pussy…”

Bob’s hips stutter and his breath catches. Then his hand curls into his hair, his mouth by Bart’s ear.

“You want that?” he said, voice a rough rasp. 

Bart mewled as his hand tightened in his hair. He hears him reach for the bedside table, hears the wet sound of him slicking himself up, feel him squirt lube against his hole. He made a sound of discomfort at the cold sensation.

“Ssh, ssh, ssh,” he whispered, one hand resting at the small of his spine. “Pretty girl.”

His fingers hooked under the silk collar. He tugs, tugs. Bart chokes, the collar pulling against his throat too tight. Bob releases his grip and the air floods back to his lungs. He feels dizzy, blood tingling in his veins. Bart pushes back, pushes his tailbone against the older man’s stomach. Bob makes that crooning sound that sets every one of his nerves on fire as he teases his lube wet hole with his cockhead. He begins to push inside. It makes Bart’s breath hitch. His head is so blunt, so thick. It hurts. Bob’s chest and stomach is pressed against Bart’s back, their sweat slippery together.

Bob mouths over his temple as he curls an arm around his neck. He licks a wet hot stripe down his jaw and Bart pants. It’s filthy. It’s depraved. He’s opening up and he hears his cock squelch all the way in. The rim of his hole feels impossibly stretched, his ass filled with his flesh, hard as rock and throbbing. Like an iron pole wrapped in silk.

He pops back out with a wet obscene sound and Bart feels his hole gape and flutter, achingly empty. Then he’s back in, hot, hot and hurting.

“No one’s ever fucked you the way you should,” he said against his throat, licking and nipping there. “No one’s fucked you like you deserve.”

“N-no….” he squeaks back. Bob is picking up speed, his hips smacking against his quivering cheeks. He feels Bob's groan of pleasure rumbling deep in his chest pressed against his back. His arm tightens around his throat and he clutches at his bicep, feels the muscles there work. Bart buries his face into the crook of Bob’s elbow, smells his skin. The rim of his hole is puffy, clinging to the older man’s cock. It feels too good, too perfect. Smacking into him deep, feeling him everywhere, hot wet bodies entwined, wrapped up and sticky slick.

The world seems fuzzy, Bob’s harsh grunting faint in his ears, the edges of his vision blurred. All he can feel are the thumping of hips against his ass, the thick organ like a piston, battering his prostate.

The older man’s hand is brushing feather soft over his quivering belly and the pulsing pink head of his cock. His thrusts are so rough, but the hand on his stomach is light and the feeling of his fingertips there is ticklish and sweet. The shivering in Bart’s stomach is becoming unbearable and he whines, head rocking against the pillow.

Bob slips out again, jams his cock up and down between his cheeks for a few moments, then pops back inside. Bart is on the edge, collapsing like a ragdoll, boneless and limp in his arms as Bob keeps pumping inside him. The precum is drooling from his cock trapped between his stomach and the mattress, Bob’s precum is dribbling in rivulets down over his thighs, wetting Bart’s taint and balls, staining the fabric of his stockings.

He squirms desperately beneath him, the pleasure too much, half wanting to get away from it because it’s too intense to handle, half pressing closer to feel as much of it as possible. Bob has a rhythm, devastatingly good, pounding in balls deep inside him, then sliding out and rubbing the length of his cock against his quivering hole, then jamming back in again. He feels the wet hot release begin to fill him up to the brim as Bob moans, coating his insides thick.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he breathed out as Bart feels his ass overflow, the come pouring out of him all sloppy and obscene. “Take it all.”

The muscles in Bart’s thighs and stomach shake as he finally tips over and comes harder than he’s ever had in his life, so hard it borders on hurting. Bob sighs, relishing in the feeling of him clamping down on his softening cock. He flops down on top of him.

His weight presses down on him and he feels small and helpless beneath his larger body. He breathed in his sweat, the smell combined with his own all thick and strong. He mouths Bart’s at neck, teeth scraping against his pulse. His cock plops back out of him.

Then he reached around him, scoops up some of his own semen, leaking out his damp cockhead, presses two soaked fingers of it into his hole. Their mixed fluids squelch wetly inside him. They lie there and Bart feels trapped beneath his body.

He doesn’t kick him out of his bed. Even after fucking him raw. He slides off of him, throwing a leg over Bart’s hips, half on top of him, pressing him into the mattress and keeping him in place. They fall asleep a sweaty tangled pile of limbs.

Waking up during the night, he smells his skin, feels his larger frame pushing him into the mattress, hears the low breathing as he sleeps.

In the morning he wakes to hear the bath running. His body aches, sore and bruised. He gets up gingerly, exits the room and peers through the open bathroom door. Bob naked, checking the water. His prison tattoos are faded, his limbs are long, lean, his face narrow and sharp, contrasting the extra weight around his middle. He looks over at Bart hovering in the doorway.

“Well come on then,” he says. “You’re filthy. Get in.”

Bart obeys. Getting out of the cum stained stockings and panties, he climbs into the hot water. It’s faintly purple and smells of lavender. Bob gets in behind him. For a second he wondered why Bob was sharing a bath with him, feeling like it was oddly intimate. Then he drags him through the water, propping him over his lap, half sitting across his knees. He understands.

“You’ve got a lot of stamina for an old man,” he murmured.

“Did I say you could talk?” Bob drawled back, hands clenching at his hips, sharp and painful. “Your mouth is only good for one thing.”

Bart shivered in his lap, the water sloshing around them. Bob slips his cock between Bart’s thighs.

“Squeeze your legs together,” he whispered into his ear. Doing as he’s told, he bites back a sigh at the feeling of the hard length brushing against the underside of his own shaft.

It was a strange ticklish feeling, the wet slide underneath his balls and cock, the popping pressure at the delicate skin of his thighs. The beginning flutters of pleasure was blooming in his lower belly. He squirmed and Bob curled his arms around his chest. He began pinching and stroking at his nipples, until they went from soft silken nubs to hard points. The flutters were growing more intense, making his skin dance with heat. Bart hooked his fingers into his mouth to try to muffle his snuffling moans. His eyes were fixed on the deep purple glistening cockhead slipping again and again underneath his own trembling cock. Bob’s breathing was growing harder more laboured in his ear.

“Get those hands down,” he demanded sharply and with a pathetic mewl, he obeyed removing his fingers from his lips.

“Put them behind your back and don’t move them until I tell you,” he said as he continued thrusting between his legs.

Bart clasped his hands behind him, trapped between Bob’s chest and his back.

“Squeeze harder on me,” he hissed and he locked his knees together tight, the odd pressure increasing. The feeling was new, strange, getting more overwhelming by the second. He’d never done anything like this with anyone. One of Bob’s hands traced feather light over his pink straining cock, just faintly circling over the head. He caught a thin string of glistening precum on his fingertip, stretching it until it snapped. Then he did it again, a delicate teasing touch. His other hand groped at Bart’s nipples. It was too much. The muscles in Bart’s arms strained from the position clasped behind his back, the sensitive underside of his shaft and balls was being brushed at over and over again by Bob’s thrusting cock. He was being brought to the edge, about to tip over into blinding ecstasy.

All at once, Bob stops. He pulls his hand away and slides his cock out from between Bart’s thighs. Bart looks around at him as he rises from the bathtub, stepping out. Bart’s cock is still hard, aching for release. His climax had been cruelly interrupted and Bob had left him cold. He felt mad with desire. He needed to come, he needed to, he was so close, it wasn’t fair.

“W-w-what’re you doing?” he said incredulously. Bob just leaned on the sink, dripping water on the floor.

“I want you to beg for it,” he said with a curling smirk.

Bart was struck speechless.

“Are you for real? C’mon just let me come …”

Bob’s smile grew wider.

“Not with those manners,” he replied. Bart let out a whine, feeling himself flush with humiliation immediately at the sound of it.

“Please, please let me, let me,” he heard himself beg, almost on the verge of crying. “Please sir, please, please…”

Bob cocked an eyebrow.

“Sir?” he said with a voice like velvet, rough yet soft. “That’s very good.”

He beckoned to him with one finger.

“Come here,” he said. Bart got up on shaking legs. His cock was bouncing against his stomach, trailing precum.

“No, no, no, Bart,” he said, with that mocking smile. “On the floor.”

Without a question, Bart dropped to his knees.

“Put your hands back behind your back,” Bob demanded, voice sharp and Bart instantly obeyed. Bob took his foot and pressed his heel into his crotch and Bart let out a choked sob at the pressure. He pushed down and Bart needed to rub himself off on the sole, needs it, needs it.

“Let me come, please sir, please sir, please, please…”

The pressure of his foot increases, the pain and pleasure mixing all up together.

“Go on,” he drawls and Bart immediately starts bucking against him, his cock engorged and angry red, his orgasm agonizing, making his head tip back and his eyes roll up. His semen is soaking all over Bob’s foot. 

“Look at the mess you’ve made,” he says, tipping Bart’s chin up with his toes. “Clean it up.”

His mind feels completely empty, so gone he’d do anything Bob asked of him. Bob’s foot is in his face, glistening with come. Bart’s opens his mouth.

“That’s it,” Bob said. “With your pretty tongue.”

Still with his hands clasped behind his back, his arms starting to ache, he licks up his own sticky semen, dragging his tongue down the man’s ankle, his sole, the white fluid clinging between his toes. Bob’s hand slid up and down his cock as he stared at the younger man beneath him. He beckoned him forward and Bart sat up, letting him cup his face. His finger stroked his chin as he jerked himself harder, harder, oozing cockhead pointed at Bart’s face. Bart felt his breath hitch as the semen shot out, over his eyelids, down over his lips and tongue, painting his cheek. It dripped from his jaw and chin. Bob was shuddering and groaning through his orgasm, still stroking Bart’s face. His fingers pushed his come past Bart’s lips and he greedily lapped up every last drop of it.

He just sits there on the floor, Bob above him, still leaning against the sink. He feels exhausted, nearly tipping over on the floor, lids drooping. Bob won’t take his eyes off of him and Bart stares back through his lashes.

“You’ll be late for school, pet,” he said finally. His voice feels like long nails gently trailing across his bones. He gets to his feet and Bob doesn’t stop staring at him with heavily lidded eyes.

Bart left him behind in the bathroom, feeling his gaze drag up and down his body as he left.

*

At school, his phone beeps. It’s a photo Bart in the bed, curled up with his fingers hooked in his mouth, asleep. His frilly knickers are come-stained, the handprint bruises dark against the skin of his throat, thighs, hips and wrists. Bite marks down his neck, collarbone and chest.

For a second he thinks it’s some kind of threat. Is this what this was all about? Blackmail? No, he realized. Bart’s face in the photo is unseen, his head tucked away into his arm. Was it just to be creepy? I took a photo of you while you were sleeping?

He doesn’t understand it.

*

Bart is serving all the drinks, while Jess sits on a beer barrel out back and texts her friends, ignoring the waiting people at the counter. The work phone rings and they both rush to grab it. Phone calls meant not having to deal with the drunken customers for a moment and you could pretend the call had gone longer then it really had just to get some peace and quiet. Bart was faster and snatched the receiver up. Jess cusses him out, now forced to take customers. Bart goes into the back room, sinking down gratefully in a rickety chair.

“Hello, Maison Derrière, Bart speaking,” he said.

“Oh it’s you,” Bob’s voice sneers on the other end of the line. “I need someone else, I don’t think you’d understand the problem.”

Passive-aggressive bastard.

“It’s only me and Jessica on tonight, the boss’s not here,” he replied. “Jess’ll just laugh at whatever your problem is, she doesn’t give a fuck about anything.”

Bob sighed with exasperation.

“What are they doing in the rooms underneath me?” he snapped. “There’s all this infernal noise…”

“You live in a whorehouse Bob, there’s gonna be a lot of noise around,” Bart replied.

“Don’t interrupt me,” he said voice as sharp as a knife and Bart’s heart jumps to his throat. He goes quiet at once.

“Good,” he said. “Now, apologize.”

“Sorry,” he murmured back. An instant reaction.

“Sorry what?”

“Sorry sir,” he whispers back. He can’t see his crooked smile but he can feel it over the phone.

“That’s better,” he replied, voice dripping with poison. “Now, what is the meaning of this new and unexplained noise?”

“The boss wants to set up a phone sex line,” Bart replied, voice meek and quiet.

“You’d do well at that,” he leered. “You’re not much good for anything else.”

Bart let out a shaking breath.

“You trying to practice on me?” he replied trying to sound contemptuous but only managing to come across as nervous.

“You’d like me to, wouldn’t you Bart?” he said. His mouth feels dry and he can’t find the words to respond. There’s mocking laughter on the end of the line.

“Oh you’re precious,” he said. “You want to pretend to be a call-girl for me don’t you?”

He swallowed roughly, feeling a dribble of sweat slide uncomfortably down his temple.

“Yessir,” he said, voice barely a whisper. His cock was twitching between his clenched closed thighs. This was so, so fucked. How could he be turned on by this?

“What’s your name, pretty girl,” he breaths to him suddenly. How did it go from a work call to this? All the hairs on his skin stood up. His voice was dark and predatory. He pressed his knees together, a strange mixture of unease and intrigue coiling in his skin.

“Uhh…” he said. Name? Name? Bartina? Bartette? No that was stupid. Stupid, stupid. He remembered what he’d said to him in the bathroom and his stomach fluttered.

“P-P-Pet…” he stuttered over the phone.

Bob chuckled all low in his chest.

“You don’t need to be shy with me Pet.”

It was twisted. It was fascinating. He’d been quiet too long, just breathing in a tight, anxious way through the phone. He had to say something.

“Are you wearing it?”

Of course he’s wearing it. Ever since he got the lingerie, he’s only out of it to wash. He wants to buy another set so he’d be able to wear lingerie all the time. He slips his thumb through his collar hidden underneath his shirt. He strokes the soft silk and murmurs out;

“Yessir.”

There was a heavy growl in response. He puts his fingers in his mouth, muffling a mewl.

“Take your hand down,” Bob demanded and the fear kicks in at once. He looks around the room, wondering if he’s somehow watching him. Then he realizes, of course, Bob had just heard his moans being covered up and put two and two together. He still feels slightly dizzy with the fright of thinking he was being spied on.

“You put on that innocent voice but you’re far from a blushing flower aren’t you?” he whispered, deadly soft. “You’d have it anywhere and everywhere. Ploughed in every orifice and loving every second of it.”

Say something, say something, he shouted at himself in his head. Bart’s heart felt swollen. His voice was like molasses, thick and dark and sweet and he was drowning in it, the syrup coating his skin.

“Yeah,” he breathed back.

“Tsk tsk,” he says. “Yes what?”

“Yes sir,” he replied. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh you will be,” he said. Bart just shivers, another wave of arousal crashing through him.

“You’ve never had your tight little cunt fucked, have you?” he said. “You’ve had it in your pretty ass and your filthy mouth but nowhere else?”

He feels out of breath for a moment.

“Answer me,” he hisses.

“Yes sir, n-never h-had it in my c-cunt sir…” he said and that wasn’t a lie. He doesn’t have a cunt to fuck he’s only ever had a cock in his pretty ass and his filthy mouth. He twists on the spot, the inside of his belly feeling tight, and his skin prickling with needles.

“I should be gentle with you then shouldn’t I?” he said with sadistic amusement. “I don’t think I will though. I think you’d like me to make you bleed and cry, wouldn’t you?”

He only manages a choked ‘mhmm.’ He’s everywhere. He can’t escape him. His lovely dark voice is filling his head, stroking up and down his spine.

“Are you wet?” he breaths and Bart clenches his eyes shut, trying to control his breathing.

“Yessir,” he said back.

“I thought I could smell your sweet cunt over the phone.”

He pushes a hand between his legs to try to alleviate the ungodly pressure there, to get some blessed relief. His stomach is tight, almost painful, the urge to come overwhelming.

“I’d push in nice and slow, make you squirm on me,” he hisses. “I’m inside you. Claiming you from the inside out. Squeezing your pretty throat. You look so beautiful with your skin bruised black and blue.”

He twists his palm in his lap with a whimper.

“It would be easy, you do realise,” Bob said. “To track you down. Can you imagine it? Underneath your sheets, watching me open up your bedroom window, going over to your bed. Would you like that? I’d put a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet and I’d put a knife to your throat as I push in. You’re pretending to be afraid but I know how you’ve dreamt for this, longed for it. I’ve lived inside you. I know all your secret longings and desires.”

He lets out a shuddering sigh. It’s a terrifying image but strangely erotic. Just like Bob. It reminds him of Dracula climbing into Lucy’s window slowly draining her blood.

“What else will I do with you tonight I wonder?”

Letting his eyes fall closed, he feels the man’s voice like fingers stroking inside his mind.

“Maybe I should flog you raw? Or see how far I can put my arm up into your insides? You’d squeal too much though, I’d have to put something in your mouth to keep you quiet. Yes, I haven’t used your mouth yet, have I?” he said and Bart’s breathing gets thicker, imagining it, pretty pet all strung up like a ham, helpless at the looming figure’s mercy.

“I think I’d force my cock past your lips to keep it nice and wide and open. You’re going to swallow every last drop. I’m going to fill your stomach up to the brim.”

He clenches his phone, pants open-mouthed as he jerks himself harder, harder.

“Are you touching yourself?” he said. “I don’t remember telling you that you were allowed to do that?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said at once and there was more tutting sounds.

“I thought you were well-behaved, but alas I was sorely mistaken,” he said. “You don’t deserve to be fucked like good girls are. Do you know how I’m going to fuck you?”

“In my ass, sir,” he replied, voice shaking.

“Yes, yes,” he growls. “Now spread yourself open for me. Go on.”

His head feels too hot, hot, hot, his breath all stuck in his throat.

“Oh,” the man said. “You’re so loose already. What have you been doing down there? Taking all the men you could? Or do you prefer those ghastly silicone penile imitations?”

“H-huh?’

“Toys, Pet, do you like to fuck toys?”

“Uh-huh.”

He can hear faint slick sounds of him stroking his cock on the other end of the line.

“It hurts doesn’t it? But you deserve it don’t you? Tell me.”

“I deserve it sir.”

The wet pumping sound was growing faster.

“I bet I could fit my whole fist in here, you’re so used up,” he hisses. “I might just press down on your windpipe until you suffocate. Or maybe break your neck.”

He needs to touch himself, he needs to. He’s so hard, cock throbbing in his underwear.

“Pull on your collar,” he said. “Touch yourself for me sweetheart, go on, play with your pretty cunt.”

He whines, high and needy. Tight, tight silk clenched in his fist, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe.

“Are you close? I want you to climax while I’m in to the hilt. I want you to climax around me. Go on. Go on.”

He only clenches his hand between his legs a few times before he’s coming, coming to the sounds of his rumbling laughter. The tightness in his belly unclenches all at once and with a gasp, he feels the liquid bliss shoot through his blood all hot and tingling. His underwear is damp, sticky. He’s come in his pants like a teenager. His heart is thumping, the sound ringing in his ears as he hears a long low sigh from the other end of the line.

“You taste so sweet,” he breathed into his ear. He listens, his soaked hand stuck between his legs as Bob gets himself off with rough, heavy moans.

“Such a good girl.”

He hangs up, leaving him sitting there with sticky underwear and a cocktail of shame and arousal surging through his heart.

*

They stick to ignoring each other at the bar, acting like nothing was going on between them at all. But they’re always watching each other out of the corner of their eyes, completely aware of the other’s presence. One time, Bob leaves his journal and pen behind to duck into the Gents. Bart immediately makes a beeline for it, opening up to the last page he’d written on. He not a fast reader and would only be able to get a line in before Bob came back, so he snaps a photo on his phone for later. He’s back behind the bar, serving drinks when Bob returns to collect his stuff and leave, none the wiser.

Back in his dorm room, curled up on his bunk, he reads through the journal entry, word by word.

_"He used to be this fat, grubby little pig of a child who made me sick with hatred just to look at. He’s grown up well. There must be some kind of beauty in his family that I was unaware of, the rest of them are the definition of frumpy white trash. But not him. He looks like the Botticelli angel in red from the Madonna of the Magnificat. All that feral wildness has been scrubbed out of him leaving behind this sad pouting doe eyed waif._

_Sooner or later he’ll get over this self-flagellation stage and make a wonderful life for himself, reignite the fiery spark that burnt my life down to ashes. I have to enjoy this opportunity to hurt him as much as I can before he moves on. No-one in this disease of a town has ever been able to outsmart me but he did when he was a child. If he could do that at ten what will he be capable of at thirty?_

_He’ll be brilliant and successful just because the universe loves to laugh at my expense. My life has just been a long string of humiliations so of course the putrescent pustule who ruined everything for me will achieve greatness while I rot in the sewer._

_I do hope though that I leave a wound in his very core that never heals. I hope he looks back at this time in his life, years on when everything is perfect for him, remembers me and what we did together and feels like his flesh is diseased, feels like he’ll never be clean. I hope I leave a mark that he won’t ever be able to scrub away. ”_

He puts his phone away, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. It was that completely off-putting mix of tenderness and viciousness that made him itch all over. He seemed so fond yet hateful of him.

How could he judge though? Bart felt a contrasting mix of white hot fear and burning desire for Bob. It made as much sense as wanting to cuddle up with a rabid wolf.

No one had ever said he looked like an angel before. The thought of it made his cheeks feel hot and his stomach all fluttery.

*

Milhouse works at the college gym during the day so the dorm is empty. He’s curled up in the cramped uncomfortable bed, still in his Itchy and Scratchy pyjamas and reading a book. He’s been trying to get into the habit of reading lately and he hates it. Just like he hates all the fucking studying, all the fucking working. Being a responsible adult was shit. It had been so much easier being a burnout loser.

He feels a hand brush over his ribs. He nearly screams, wrenching around. Bob is kneeling by his bed and behind him the window is open. He’s jimmied the lock and broken in. Payback, he supposed.

“How’d you know I was here?” he whispered breathlessly, feeling his entire body shaking with the shock. Bob just leers.

“Don’t you worry you’re pretty little head over it,” he said. His long fingers are under the hem of his shirt, stroking lightly up and down his ribcage. His other hand reaches over to take the book from his hand, flipping it over to see the cover. He’s boxed in now by his arms, can smell how sweaty he is from breaking in.

“Stephen King,” he scoffs. “Of course you choice of literature is hackneyed B-movie horror shclock.”

“You were reading Frankenstein at the bar last night dumbass, that’s the definition of B-movie horror,” he snapped back.

“Resorting to petty name-calling, I shouldn’t have expected a proper debate from you,” he said. “Shelley’s novella is substantially more intellectual then it’s myriad of inferior adaptions.”

Bart just squints at him with confusion. The crooked smile on his face widens.

“Aw poor pet, the words too confusing for you?” he said. “You know I was watching you struggle sentence by sentence for a while before you noticed me, your simpleton face all screwed up in fierce concentration to get an astonishing ten pages into that infantile excuse for a book? I must say, I’m impressed you got that far.”

“We can’t all be neurotypical like you,” he replied, referring to his ADHD and Bob raised an eyebrow. “You go on about how dumb I am but you’re the one who got outsmarted by a ten year old how many times?”

“Neurotypical? Impressive, impressive,” he said. “Who taught you that word, your sister? She was the actual one behind all of your triumphs over me, correct? You can admit it, Bart. You were just the showman who took all the credit for her superior intellect. I mean come on, look at her compared to you it’s obvious she’s the only one with brains in your family.”

How did he know? How did he know that he’d just hit him right in his biggest insecurity? It was like he could see into his soul with his dark, malicious eyes, unpeel him layer by layer.

He’d thrown the book at the older man’s head before he could think. Bob easily ducked out of the way. Instantly he swung his arm and Bob’s hand clamped down at his wrist like a vice. He tried with his other hand to hit him again but Bob was quicker, pinning him down. He struggled furiously on the spot, swearing, spitting as Bob laughed.

Bob’s face was an inch away from him and he didn't know why he tipped his head up, opening his mouth to kiss him. God Christ, how masochistic and pathetic was he? The grip on his wrists stung, Bob’s mouth moving against his.

“Fuckin’ bastard," he whispered into his mouth.

“Oh no that was you remember, your parents had that shotgun wedding after your father shot his seed up your mother?” he sneered back. 

Bart squirmed in his vice tight grip.

"You're fucked," he said.

"Yes, but you still want me to fuck you. You want it right now don't you?"

It was funny, despite the verbal lashings and the vicious sex he still made sure to get Bart’s consent. Trying to understand his moral code was like trying to decipher a foreign language.

"Yeah," he murmured voice trembling with angry defeat. “How did you know my parents had a shotgun wedding, creep? You been reading up on me, you fucking stalker?”

“No, no Pet,” he drawled back. “Your Aunt told me back when I was fucking her. You’re a much better lay though, don’t you worry.”

He pressed his mouth beneath his eye, tasting his tears. His hands were digging into his wrists and his cock was pressing into his stomach.

“You look best when you’re crying,” he breathed.

He doesn’t understand it. Why wasn’t it making him angry? He worked so hard to prove everyone wrong that he was smart, that he wasn’t an idiot, but some psychotic criminal bastard relentlessly insulted him and he enjoyed it?

His hand dips underneath the waistband of his pyjamas. He reaches for Bart’s bedside table, finding his lube. He squeezed some onto his hand.

“Well used,” he said as he palms him through his briefs and Bart bucks his hips up into his hand. “Have you been thinking of me?”

Bart just flushes, biting his lip and looking away. Bob crooned mockingly at him as he pulled his pyjama bottoms and underwear down his thighs. He shifted him over the bed til his head hung off the side.

“Pull me out,” he said and Bart reached up with shaking hands, his face feeling too hot and his breath too short. He unbuckles his belt, taking out his cock, curving hard, blunt head ruddy red and leaking. It brushes against his lips and Bart obediently let his mouth fall open. The tears prickled in his eyes as Bob pushed the dark, shiny head into his throat. He feels gloriously enwrapped in him, his weight heavy on his frame, his heady smell and taste everywhere.

It’s not nice or caring, cause he doesn’t deserve that. He deserves this instead, the fear and degradation all mixed up with pleasure and excitement so burning intense it was like white hot fire lit in the core of his body.

Bob pushes his face into Bart’s belly, kisses his soft flesh, pulling his legs up until his knees were on either side of the older man’s head. His stubble scratched and tickled as he mouthed his trembling belly, forcing a few droplets of semen from his pink cock. He tongued at his balls, swallowed him all down easily without gagging once. Bart pulled off Bob’s cock, moaning at the silken heat engulfing him.

“You must’ve been popular in prison,” Bart said, his throat feeling hoarse, his voice wrecked. Bob scraped his teeth against his delicate skin, making him flinch violently. His knees force Bart’s head back forward, pushing himself through his puffy spit soaked lips.

His mouth was stuffed full, each thrust slid all the way down his throat and made him gag every time. Spit ran down his face as he pushed inside of him again and again. Bart felt utterly gone with pleasure, spikes of heat shooting through his blood. There’s a slow lovely pain in his jaw, his stretched mouth aching. Bob’s throat around him is hot wet and sweet, plunging over his cock again and again, slurping at his heated flesh.

It felt so good, to not have to think, to just have the other man control him, do all the work for him. His mind was blank, none of the usual anxieties buzzing and screaming there. Just quiet.

Bob’s thighs squeezed on either side of his head. His hand tightens in his hair, his cock shoved all the way into his throat as he comes straight into his stomach. It’s a long orgasm, load after load filling up Bart’s belly. He gags again, fresh wave of saliva surging down his chin.

Bob slowly pulls out his soft dick from Bart’s abused mouth and pops off of his own cock. He props him back over the bed and kneels between his legs. He lets Bob take his wrist, guide his fingers into Bart's hole. He hit his own sweet spot and spasmed against the mattress. Bob’s other hand is a vice grip around the back of his knees, fingers bruising the skin black. His eyes are like burning lamps, staring into his face as he grits his teeth, forcing Bart’s fingers in and out.

Bart tossed his head to the side, whimpering as he pushed his free hand to his mouth. He felt the pressure of Bob’s fingers at his ass and he shook when they slowly pushed in against his own inside him. He's still not used to how long they are. Three of Bob’s digits and two of his own, an entire hand’s worth inside his hole. It was too much. His rim felt stretched too far, gripping the pumping fingers tight. He automatically tried to pull his own hand away but Bob tightened the grip on his wrist, pushed it further until Bart was in to the hilt.

“Please,” he said in a tiny voice. Bob crooked his fingers inside his belly.

“You want me to kiss it better?” he cooed as he slid down between his legs. “You want my mouth there?”

Bart’s breathing was heaving out of control, bursts and spasms of pleasure wracking his body. He felt Bob’s mouth just brush at his stuffed hole, using his free hand to press Bart’s cock against his stomach. Bart cried out as his knees locked together and his feet curled and the come streamed out. 

Bob’s fingers left him and he tugs at Bart’s wrist until Bart is empty, hole clenching and unclenching around nothing. Bob slides back up him lithe as a snake as Bart lies helplessly on the mattress, trembling through the aftershocks.

Bob pulls Bart’s fingers from his mouth, takes his chin in his hand and kisses him. Bart shivers, tasting his come and Bob’s mixing up in their mouths together. Still kissing him, Bob drops his familiar weight down. Bart felt like he was trying to take the air from his lungs and replace it with his own breath. He grasps around blindly and Bob slipped their hands together, his spidery fingers enveloping Bart's smaller ones. It always felt smothering being underneath his body but in a strangely comforting way, trapped on the bed with him. As Bob’s tongue probes his mouth he plays with Bart’s blond hair.

Sex with him is disturbing, like ants are crawling under his skin. But he still craves it, doesn’t want it to ever stop. It’s the sudden bursts of gentleness that makes it all so…off like rotten fruit sweet but poison. He doesn’t understand why sometimes during all the frightening roughness, Bob will hold his hand and stroke his hair. He’s like a feral dog, biting and ripping and savaging him, but then licking Bart’s wounds clean afterwards.

Perhaps it’s guilt. Perhaps it’s a mind game to psychologically fuck with him. Or he’s just a sex doll he fucks and cuddles with afterwards.

He’s staying at Bob’s more and more now. The library and study hall at school are too loud and distracting, at home his game console is too close and tempting, the sounds of laughter and fun outside his door like a siren call. At Bob’s it’s quiet, still, with no distractions in sight. The books may have interested someone else but they were all too complicated and dull for him.

And the bed is better.

He can’t tell anyone. If he told his sisters, they’d kick Bob’s door in and try to kill him with their bare hands. If he told his parents, his mother would crumple and cry, his father would fly into a fit of violent rage. Jessica would laugh at him, Milhouse would go around and tell everyone at the college.

During work, he eyes Laura, throwing back booze and shouting enthusiastic obscenities at the dancing girls. He desperately wants to tell. And Laura had always been cool. Not the type to give away secrets or mock you to your face. Maybe he could open up to her.

At the end of his shift, he goes over to her table, feeling almost shy, twisting his hands together. She takes a few minutes to realize he’s hovering at her side. Her face splits into an easy smile.

“Hey,” she says. She noticed Bart’s eyes flicking around, him twisting the hem of his shirt in his hands, his bunched up shoulders.

“You wanna go smoke?” she said, already reaching into her pocket and Bart nodded gratefully. He quit smoking years before but it’s a good excuse to go somewhere quiet. They walk out to the smoking area, a tiny courtyard out back where the bins were. It’s cold and the night sky is dotted with stars above them. Bart wished he’d bought his jacket, wrapping his arms around himself. Laura rolls her cigarette, offers Bart one who turns it down. She lights up.

Her silent enquiring look makes it all comes spilling out like toxic waste.

“Me and…Bob…we…we’ve got this thing going on. Fucking y’know. I feel really gross about it, like I’ve got bugs in my skin but I was the one who started it all and I don’t want to stop. There’s gotta be something wrong with me. He tried to goddamn kill me as a kid and now we’re fucking? That’s sick. I’ve got to be fucked in the head to be doing this.”

He hugged himself harder, staring down at his feet, unable to look at her directly.

“I…” he murmured. “I haven’t told anyone.”

Laura was silent for all of a moment. Then she tossed her head back and laughed.

“Dude,” said Laura, rolling her eyes. “Me and Jess figured that out ages ago. You eye fuck each other like mad.”

Bart looked up at her with shock. He had no idea what to say. Fear bloomed in his belly. Did everyone else know? Were people gossiping about it? What if it got back to his mom? It would ruin her.

“I haven't told anyone and Jess doesn't care enough to tell,” said Laura, cutting through his panicked thoughts. “I don't think it's as bad as you're making out. It just seems like a kind of warped stress relief. You work nearly every night and you’re at school nearly every day. There’s nothing wrong with needing a way to escape the pressure. Sure most people’s stress relief is a nice walk or a bath, not creepy sex with their childhood stalker, but eh, to each their own.”

He twisted on the spot and she reached over to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Look you’re not shooting up or doing anything actually dangerous,” she said. “It’s just fucking. I don’t see a problem. Unless Bob starts being actually abusive and it doesn’t sound like he is, then what’s the worry?”

She patted him on the shoulder and finished smoking, flicking it into an ashtray. She walked off for the bar again, leaving him alone in the courtyard.

He’s never thought of it like that. He’d been so caught up in how bad this thing was, he didn’t stop to think of the pros. During the day it's constant pressure and expectations, you need to prove that you’re not that dumb waste of space kid, you need to prove you’re smart, that accepting him to college wasn’t a mistake. They’re always watching, professors who’d heard of his reputation, watching for him to prove them all right that he’s the idiot loser they all knew he was.

With him, all that weight is gone. Lifted from his body. He’s a pretty boy only good for being fucked. It fills him with calm, makes him feel almost peaceful. He doesn’t need to be smart. He doesn’t need to be anything. He just needs to do as he’s told like a good pet. A release of pressure is all it was. That made sense. It made his chest feel a little lighter, the crawling bugs under his skin not so itchy.

He moved, his arms still wrapped around himself, through the door and back into the house.

Maybe he’d find a better stress relief some other day. Right now he’s thinks he doesn’t really mind the more twisted method he’d found. He was always the type to do things his own wretched way that made people gasp and clutch their pearls in horror. Why would this be any different?

He goes up the carpeted stairs, heading for the attic door. No. He might just stay with Bob for now and for tomorrow and for the day after that. He might not ever quit this nasty little thing they had at all.

**Author's Note:**

> happy valentine's day


End file.
